This is one of my favorite Alex Ross images. I’m not sure if that’s Henry Pym or Clint Barton towering over the city but this painting captures the shock and wonder that would be generated by such a sight. It’s from the 2nd issue of Marvels and to me, this is what the MCU films should take some times to explore, not just the activities of super-powered heroes but also of all the ordinary people who have to try to live their lives while all of the heroes and the villains fight their petty battles.
I’ve been singing the praises of Philadelphia’s Reptile House anthology to anyone who would listen for the last couple of years, and to date no one who’s bought it on my advice has done anything other than thank me for turning them onto it — and a big part of what made the first issues (the first five issues, specifically) so special was the first serialized “adventure” of cartoonist Nick Bunch’s barely-fictitious band Blood Horn. These strips had everything you could want in a music-themed comic, in fact they had everything you could want in any sort of comic : relatable characters, quick-witted dialogue, anti-authoritarian attitude, and an unhealthy fixation on gross-out style laughs. It was a “fuck you” comic made by somebody who wasn’t making anything like “fuck you” money for writing and drawing it, and as far as I’m concerned shit doesn’t get any more real than that.
It makes perfect sense that Reptile House (the publisher, that is, not the series — although, I dunno, they’re pretty much one and the same thing) would collect this “arc” into a single volume, but what was surprising to me upon receiving it (some four or five months back — yes, I really am that far behind on reviews) was the extent to which they pulled out all the stops, production values-wise, on Blood Horn in this “stand-alone” iteration. Not only is the paper nice and thick, the cardstock cover is even nicer and thicker, and it’s printed in a really snazzy and apropos gold ink that jumps right out at you. This royal treatment couldn’t have been cheap, but the price of the comic itself still is, so hats off to RH for giving readers absolutely terrific value for money.
Of course, any book, regardless of how impressive it is purely as a physical object, is only as good as the contents it presents, and while we’ve touched on that subject already, it never hurts to elaborate further. Simply stated, Bunch is one hell of a cartoonist, and even better, while he’s clearly taking a lot of stylistic cues from the underground tradition (Spain Rodriguez, in particular, seems to be a notable influence), he’s not in any way tethered to the ethos of a bygone era. He may amp up the outrageousness to a degree that would make the Zap gang proud, but this is still a decidedly contemporary comic that reflects the concerns — as well as the sensibilities — of today’s 20-something artists, as well as their admirable lack of respect for people and institutions that aren’t worthy of any. Cops are certainly the most natural enough target in this regard, of course, but in a broader sense, Bunch is castigating the entire rotting edifice of late-stage capitalist hypocrisy, and he’s doing it with a smile on his face. This comic isn’t going to start a revolution or anything, but your average revolutionary — even of the armchair variety — is bound to get a kick out of it just the same.
In a pinch, I think irreverence sums up the tone here best, but it’s a smart, pointed, thought-through sort of irreverence that comes from lived experience. Anyone who’s ever been part of a band — or even just had friends who were in a band — is going to immediately recognize many of these characters, nod in knowing agreement at the ways in which they think, act, and speak, and generally enjoy being in their company. The plot, centering around preparations for an upcoming “battle of the bands,” is simple enough, but the road blocks (some self-generated from within, others imposed from without) our erstwhile “heroes” have to deal with are almost preposterously convoluted, so it behooves readers to pay close attention to everything on the page here, because you don’t want to be caught napping on what is a fluid and ever-changing series of strung-together absurdities.
In addition, there are any number of fiendishly clever sight gags that you likewise don’t want to miss out on. Bunch jam-packs every panel with visual information, never takes short cuts with his illustration, and is a virtuoso of cartoonish exaggeration. The social and economic margins are always a good vantage point from which to poke fun at the uptight self-importance of the “straight” world, sure, but it takes a special talent to communicate a sense of disdain for “The Man” through art every bit as much as through dialogue, and Bunch is — no BS — a bona fide master at doing exactly that. Partly he’s done his homework, partly he’s got street-smart Philly attitude to spare, and partly he’s just, to the extent that one subscribes to the idea of such a thing, a born cartoonist.
I’m of a mind that we all need more fun in our lives — even the lucky few who have plenty of fun already. And comics don’t get any more fun than this, so seriously — what the hell are you waiting for?
Also, this review is “brought to you” by my Patreon site, where I serve up exclusive thrice-weekly rants and ramblings on the worlds of comics, films, television, literature, and politics for as little as a dollar a month. Subscribing is the best way to support my continuing work, so I’d be very appreciative if you’d take a moment to check it out by directing your kind attention to https://www.patreon.com/fourcolorapocalypse
Admittedly, I’m not a close follower of the mainstream comics scene and so can’t speak with any authority on what may or may not be happening in it now, but unless there’s been some sort of below-the-radar (like, way below-the-radar) resurgence of which I’m entirely unaware, it’s safe to say that the “swords and sandals” genre reached its apex in this little medium we all love (most of the time) back in the 1970s, when a bevy of four-color “floppies” and full-sized black and white magazines regaled readers month in and month out with the exploits of Conan the Barbarian, Red Sonja, Kull the Conqueror, and too many also-ran imitators to count. As newsstand distribution gave way to the direct market, though, super-hero readers found their tastes increasingly catered to while fans of Robert E. Howard-esque fantasy were nudged further and further to the sidelines, ultimately being relegated to “afterthought” status.
I’ve heard that Conan is back at Marvel these days after a long hiatus that saw the character wandering through a series of smaller publishers, but his exploits appear to be confined to only standard-format comic books now, with the “mature readers” (as in, they can show boobs and butts) B&W mag apparently a thing of the past — and while that probably makes all kinds of sense from a financial and commercial perspective, it still leaves the grizzled nostalgist out in the cold, stuck poring over dusty back issue bins to find PG-13- and R-rated tales of the Hyperborean Age. Or does it?
Art abhors a vacuum every bit as much as nature does, so leave it to our always-intrepid friends at Strangers Fanzine to fill this particular one with the late-2021 release of cartoonist Brian McCray’s Krania, a magazine-formatted collection of short-form yarns centered around the exploits of a female barbarian warrior that hews a fine line between respectful homage and revisionist re-interpretation with just enough wink-and-nod pastiche thrown in to keep readers who find this sort of crap inherently ridiculous (I’ll take the fifth on whether or not that includes me) reasonably amused and enthralled, as well. It’s hardly revolutionary stuff by any means, but it’s not designed to be : McCray has set himself a fairly specific task with this project, and he proceeds to tackle it with energy and aplomb.
All of which is to say, don’t expect anything particularly taxing here, but do expect to be entertained. McCray’s cartooning is solid, stylish, and dynamic — his villainous creatures are imaginatively designed, his protagonist looks like a tough warrior woman should, and his fight scenes are fluidly paced with the appropriate emphasis given to impact in relation to action. He’s not overly concerned with details, relying on what appears to be the digital equivalent of zip-a-tone to do a lot of the heavy lifting in that regard, but he’s got all the basics of composition down pat and isn’t afraid to get creative with perspective and placement. Throw in a smattering of entirely unsubtle hat-tips to Jack Kirby’s Kamandi, and it’s awfully hard not to like what’s being served up here.
Okay, in fairness, this is about as self-aware a comic as you’re likely to find, but it doesn’t approach its subject matter with an eye toward narratively “cashing in” on easily-arrived-at irony — rather, as the title of this review suggests, there is some delicious (if obvious) subversion going on here with regards to traditional gender roles in so-called “heroic fantasy” that’s probably long (as in decades) overdue. I get the feeling McCray has plenty to say, but that he would rather say it through his stories than in his stories, and if that sounds like a distinction without a difference on its face, rest assured that if you decide to take the plunge and read this book — as well you should — you’ll understand what I’m (perhaps clumsily) getting at more or less immediately.
Count me in as a believer in what McCray is doing here, then, and also as someone who will almost certainly be on the lookout for more of his stuff. And if I were an actual fan of this genre, who knows? I’d have probably enjoyed this comic even more than I did — which, in case you hadn’t sussed it out already, was quite a bit indeed.
Also, this review is “brought to you” by my Patreon site, where I serve up exclusive thrice-weekly rants and ramblings on the worlds of comics, films, television, literature, and politics for as little as a dollar a month. Subscribing is the best way to support my continuing work, so I’d be very appreciative if you’d take a moment to give it a look by directing your kind attention to https://www.patreon.com/fourcolorapocalypse
In 1983, Marvel comics teamed up with local newspapers to produce inserts that would feature heroes like the X-Men and Spider-Man visiting towns outside of New York, meeting with local celebrities, and, of course, providing ad space for local businesses. One of the newspapers that they teamed up with the now-defunct Dallas Times Herald, which was also the original home of Texas’s own drive-in movie reviewer, Joe Bob Briggs.
Marvel ended up doing three inserts for the Dallas Times Herald, one with the X-Men at the State Fair and then two featuring Spider-Man. In “Danger in Dallas,” Peter Parker accompanied J. Jonah Jameson and Dr. Mudge to Dallas so that Dr. Mudge’s wheelchair-bound son could meet his heroes, the Dallas Cowboys.
Dr. Mudge had also developed an anti-gravity device and the Circus of Crime was determined to steal it for themselves. Spider-Man had to stop them but to fight an entire circus, he would need some help. Good thing that Cowboys didn’t have anything to do that day!
Once the Cowboys had tackled the Circus of Crime, Peter and even Jonah were able to enjoy opening day. Peter even proved his courage by eating a Texas Stadium hot dog!
Spider-Man wished the Cowboys a good game, letting us know that even super heroes from New York were rooting for America’s Team in the 80s.
Out of curiosity, I decided to see how the Cowboys did during the 1983 season. They went 12-4 and were second in the NFC East. They earned a wildcard spot but lost to the Rams, 17-24. Despite Spider-Man’s blessings, it was not the Cowboys who went to the Super Bowl but instead the team currently known as Football Team. (Full disclosure: By default, that was my family’s team until Baltimore finally got the Ravens.) Fortunately, Washington lost to the Raiders, 9-38.
According to the cover, this was a 60 cent value in 1983. Currently, it sells for $18.00 online.
The Dallas Cowboys and Spider-Man #1 “Danger in Dallas” (1983)
Writer Marie Severin and David Kraft Pencilers Marie Severin and Kerry Gammill Inker Mike Esposito Colorist Stan Goldberg Letterer R. G. O’Shaw
There’s an old rule in storytelling : write (or, in the case of a comic, write and draw) what you know — and then tinker around with it at the margins just a bit. After all, you want what you’re writing (or, again, writing and drawing) to be at least marginally more interesting than “real” life, right?
That’s the theory, at any rate, and it’s served many a novelist (or, in this case, a cartoonist — I know, I know, I need to stop with this shit already) well over the years, the latest being Isaac Moylan, who parlays his intimate knowledge of the arts “scene” and the city of New York into an unassumingly absorbing tale and throws in a dash of the supernatural for good measure in his new self-published graphic novel, The Maspeth Witch. Just authentic enough to ring true, just fantastical enough to keep you turning the pages, for a full-length debut (Moylan’s apparently dabbled here and there in short-form comics but makes his living in freelance commercial illustration) it’s a surprisingly assured work that knows both how to maintain a reader’s attention and how to make sure what flaws it does have don’t in any way appreciably detract from the (sorry to be crass, but) finished product.
By way of brief (and deliberately truncated so as to avoid “spoilers”) synopsis, our protagonist here, grounded-but-nominally-ambitious young(-ish) artist Miriam is preparing for her “big break” gallery show when an act of casual cruelty toward a cat engenders a chain reaction of events that quickly turns the lives of her and her husband, Moshe, into — well, a “living hell” might be putting it strongly, but then again, by the time all is said and done, maybe it’s not. Suffice to say, both the title of this review and the title of the book itself make complete sense — I’m just being an asshole and not giving you full context for them in the here and now. Mama didn’t raise no snitches and all that, but you’re a smart person — you can probably figure it out. I mean, everybody knows what any self-respecting witch’s “familiar” animal of choice is, right?
The big “plus” here, as one would expect given his background, is Moylan’s richly detailed art. His people look like real people, both when it comes to their faces and their bodies, and the attention he pays to the so-called “little things” really pays off : he draws buildings, backgrounds, and environments really well. Normally I’m not a huge fan of photo-referencing, but I’ll give him a pass for leaning on it here because he utilizes it as an enhancement in his work, rather than making it the backbone of it, and that’s a crucial distinction because it means good, old-fashioned, freehand illustration is still what he most relies on for his visual storytelling — as any real artist damn well should, at least in this admittedly cantankerous old-timer’s opinion.
Where Moylan could stand to hone his craft a bit more, though, is in the area of narrative fluidity. While most of his dialogue is reasonably crisp and authentic, and his main characters are genuinely likable (and still relatable even when they’re not), he has a tendency to use exposition as a crutch, both when he’s setting the stage initially and when he wants to move things along, and sometimes that can break up his story’s natural rhythm. To his credit, he always gets his footing back in fairly short order, but there is an art to hitting precise story “beats” in organic (or at least seemingly organic) fashion that Moylan is still learning. No harm or shame in that, of course, but prospective readers should be prepared to make allowances for a bit of “clunkiness” to rear its head from time to time within what is, all told, an otherwise enjoyable and well-crafted comic.
If I had to pinpoint Moylan’s greatest strength, in a word I’d say it’s his composition. He’s got an eye for truly cinematic “camera angles” and his sense of perspective is incredibly firm and even a bit on the playful side — which tells me that he knows what he’s inherently good at and isn’t afraid to get creative with it. As time moves on and he becomes more comfortable with the fundamental differences between drawing and cartooning, I have a feeling we may find he’s got a truly great comic or graphic novel in him. Until then, this book serves to announce the arrival of an intriguing new talent who’s the “chops” to go far, and it’s a fun, compelling, and interesting yarn, to boot. I’ll be keeping an eye out for what Moylan does next, and in the meantime I would be surprised at all to find myself re-reading this a time or two.
Also, this review is “brought to you” by my Patreon site, where I serve up exclusive thrice-weekly rants and ramblings on the world of comics, films, television, literature, and politics for as little as a dollar a month. Subscribing is the best way to support my continuing work, so I’d be very pleased if you’d take a moment to give it a look by directing your kind attention to https://www.patreon.com/fourcolorapocalypse
Some stories don’t “unfold” so much as they’re peeled back, each layer revealing another underneath, until the reader finally arrives at the core. Such is the case with the fourth installment in British cartoonist B. Mure’s “Ismyre” series of graphic novels, Methods Of Dyeing (Avery Hill, 2021), and while one could make a strong case that the title itself is both too clever and too obvious by half, given the narrative centers around an investigation of a murdered botanist/professor whose particular area of expertise is plant-based dyes, it’s just as accurate to say that most everything else on offer here is shrouded in a definite air of mystery.
It’s a mystery of a very — and, for the record, appealingly — singular nature, though : one that takes its time, isn’t afraid to savor its own richness, and gently takes the reader along for the ride. Certainly there’s enough by way of revelations going on for this to have been a fast-paced, suspenseful work, if that was the direction Mure had chosen to go, but the fact that it concerns itself instead with establishing its own tempo and temperament speaks to the confidence this cartoonist has in both their methodology and their fictitious de facto “universe.” It’s a comic that’s entirely comfortable in its own skin, immune to the pressures of trying to be what audiences could, at first glance, be forgiven for assuming it either should or must be.
Speaking of audiences, while it’s fair to say that some working knowledge of the world of Ismyre certainly doesn’t hurt going into this, it’s in no way necessary, and I daresay any newcomers are likely to be impressed enough by what they discover here to find themselves sufficiently motivated to track down previous volumes — but the laconic pacing and efficiently minimalist dialogue may require some getting used to on the part of so-called “newbies.” That’s certainly not a criticism by any means — a comic that demands you meet it on its own level is, after all, usually the best kind of comic there is (hell, some might say comics of that nature are the only type worth reading, and I’m not prepared to refute that opinion) — but it does mean that it’s incumbent upon Mure to roll out the red carpet and welcome folks in, metaphorically speaking. No need to fear on that score, though — this story may not propel itself forward in any traditional sense, but it does exert an inexorable pull, a siren call that one can’t help but feel compelled to follow, wherever it may lead.
It also doesn’t hurt that it’s so damn gorgeous to look at. Mure’s cartooning is soft, wistful, warm, welcoming, offering a compelling contrast to the violence at the center of the proceedings and the dread as our gender-norms-bending anthropomorphic animal investigator — who would seem to be hiding a few secrets of her own — works toward solving the case. The fluid strokes of Mure’s brush line and the lithe application of watercolors are enough to fool you into thinking Ismyre is a peaceful idyll of a village, but underneath those surfaces beats what is, at the very least, a semi-dark heart. This might be a perfectly fine comic to show kids, sure, but tonally and thematically, a “kids’ comic” it is not.
And yet, there’s a tangible sense of wonder that informs everything here that’s well and truly childlike in terms of its sheer infectiousness. Mure is clearly having a blast hooking us on the line and reeling us in, and even appears to take a certain amount of glee in yanking us subtly in the wrong direction on occasion. These are all familiar enough tropes that are being exploited, it’s true — but that’s what makes their nod-and-wink subversion so effective. This isn’t a comic out to re-write any rulebook, but to play against expectation precisely because you know the rules — and Mure knows that you know them. I promise that last sentence makes sense — or at least, it will once you’ve read this book.
Which, not to put too fine a point on it, should be your next move. Methods Of Dyeing is a quiet little marvel that fully immerses you in a world you won’t won’t to leave — even as it becomes clear that world is fraught with more peril than appearances would initially suggest. Granted, appearances can always be deceiving — but the spell that this comic casts on you is as real as it gets.
Also, this review is “brought to you” by my Patreon site, where I serve up exclusive thrice-weekly rants and ramblings on the world of comics, films, television, literature, and politics for as little as a dollar a month. Subscribing is the best way to support my continuing work, so I’d be very appreciative if you’d take a moment to give it a look by directing your kind attention to https://www.patreon.com/fourcolorapocalypse
It can be a fickle bastard of a thing, this critiquing business. In theory, at any rate, you’re judging a work on its own merits and nothing else — how well it succeeds at establishing the terms of what it is, first off, and then subsequently delivering upon them. But who are we kidding? Outside influences, both subtle and less so, almost always figure into the equation on some level, the so-called “soft tyranny” of expectations being foremost among them. “Was this book all that I wanted or hoped for it to be?” is a question most critics ask themselves — fair or not; whether they even realize it or not.
It’s just as well, then, that every so often something comes along that blows that whole framework out of the water : a comic that, by its very nature, is steadfastly resistant to the “expectations game” on the one hand, and to comparison of any sort on the other. Something that makes its own rules, does things its own way, operates according to the dictates of its creator and to nothing or no one else. That “something” being, in this case, UK cartoonist Hurk’s 2021 Avery Hill-published graphic novel Jinx Freeze.
The comics medium itself is no longer a young one, it’s true, and so works that are completely original are tough to come by — maybe even flat-out impossible — but a book like this serves to, at the very least, remind one that, of all forms of art, comics remains the one with the most untapped potential. And hey, even if I’m only saying so myself and asking you to take me at my word, that right there is a big reason why I felt myself drawn toward analyzing and reviewing them in the first place. Sure, you might very well be able to place Hurk’s work somewhere along a stylistic continuum that includes names such as Mark Beyer, Kaz, Max Huffman, or Marc Bell (among others), but the spot it carves out for itself is, in point of fact, utterly its own, and as Jinx Freeze unfolds, even the least astute reader out there will get a very real sense of an artist claiming his thematic and stylistic territory while he goes about weaving an apparently-haphazard-yet-actually-quite-intricate series of vignettes into a tapestry that’s hitherto unseen because, frankly, it’s hitherto unimagined. Even the parts that don’t make “sense” in the conventional — errrmmm — sense of the term do so within the hermetic de facto confines of what I’ll call, at least here in a pinch, the “Hurk-verse.” And I guess now’s the point at which I hope the cartoonist himself, should he ever actually read this, can forgive me for coining that unfortunate term on the fly. But I effing digress —
So what do we have here, in purely narrative and aesthetic terms? Well, in one respect it’s a classic caper. In another, it’s a surreal spin on police procedurals. In still another, a sprawling-ensemble slapstick yarn. And in yet one more, a futuristic sci-fi comedy thriller. Upping the ante still further, each of these respective genre sandboxes the narrative is playing around in is shot through with elements of pastiche, and so it’s fair to say Hurk is both marginally beholden to them and sending them up (or, as they’d say on his side of the pond, “taking the piss out of them”) simultaneously. Now throw in the added elements of each component riffing off the others and being in conversation with them, all while being recognizably part of the same world and story thanks to Hurk’s vivid, energetic, stylized, colorful, geometrically-informed cartooning, and the end result is something that should, by all rights, probably be a cacophony of literary and visual noise, but instead builds up in truly symphonic fashion.
Which isn’t to say, of course, that the occasional note of discord doesn’t linger in the background or, on occasion, force itself to the fore. There are punchlines that fall flat, story “beats” that miss the mark — but the overall trajectory of the piece is never derailed in any appreciable, lasting manner, and the only thing that quells the urge to keep turning the pages is the desire to spend more time “oohing” and “aahing” over the ingenious little flourishes of the one you’re already on. Don’t be afraid to take your time with this comic, then, even if the pace is rapid and frenetic, verging on the breakneck.
And so we return to our analysis of the phenomenon of critical analysis itself. Jinx Freeze is, perhaps, easier to praise than it is to describe, at least for someone of my meager capabilities — and it’s arguably greater on the whole than the sum of its parts would, upon first reading at any rate, suggest. Although, the more I pore over it, the more I come to see the “little things” that come together to form the “big picture” are all there, either in plain sight or hiding in it. Here’s what I do know : I didn’t want it to end, and when it did, I wanted to start reading it all over again. And whaddya know? That’s exactly what I did.
Also, this review is “brought to you” by my Patreon site, where I serve up exclusive thrice-weekly rants and ramblings on the worlds of comics, films, television, literature, and politics for as little as a dollar a month. Subscribing is the best way to support my continuing work, so I’d be very appreciative if you’d take a moment to give it a look by directing your kind attention to https://www.patreon.com/fourcolorapocalypse
Galactus has always been one of my favorite Marvel characters and it’s a shame that his only film appearance was botched in 2007’s Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer. Now that the Fantastic Four are once again free to be a part of the MCU, my sincere hope is that we’ll get a worthy Galactus film. If Marvel Studios could bring Thanos to life, why not the Planet-Eater?
Below is Galactus (and the Silver Surfer) as imagined by Alex Ross. All four of these images are from Marvels #3 (March 1994) and they really capture Galactus in all of his glory.
Hopefully, the next time Galactus appeared in a film, he’ll be as impressive as he was here.
I wonder, if Dan Clowes knew that he’d be starting a decades-long “cottage industry” in comics with his “Art School Confidential” strip, if he’d take it all back?
Not that it was a bad strip, mind you — quite the opposite. It still makes me laugh to this day. But the art school memoir has grown and metastasized from that point into a beast that literally will not die, even if the critical and box office failure of Clowes and Terry Zwigoff’s film adaptation of the aforementioned story probably should have, by all rights, put it to rest. Okay, sure, it hasn’t been all bad : Matthew Thurber’s Artcomic, Joseph Remnant’s Cartoon Clouds, and Walter Scott’s Wendy series stand out as high-water marks, but on the shallow end we’ve got, well — everything else.
Welcome to everything else — or, at the least (and the most), a fairly standard representative example of everything else. Clio Isadora’s Sour Pickles (Avery Hill, 2021) is certainly okay enough for what it is, sure, but the problem I have with it is that it’s not appreciably different or distinctive as far as art school memoirs go apart from the fact that her authorial stand-in protagonist, Pickles (hence the title) and her friend/fellow classmate, Radish (noticing a pattern here?) temporarily become speed freaks in order to power their way through finals. Which is one of the older tricks in the book for students cramming their way to the finish line, admittedly, but hasn’t been explored, to my knowledge, on the comics page before — and, to be honest, Isadora’s frenetic art style, which might best be described as a kind of “Peow Studio aesthetic on crank plus an intentionally garish color scheme,” works well for the instances when Pickles and Radish are wired as fuck, and really brings a reader inside their racing minds. Unfortunately, however, that’s only part of the book.
It honestly doesn’t take long for Isadora’s admittedly interesting art to begin to grate, especially when her adherence to it negates the emotional impact of certain scenes like a “friend of a friend” funeral and a decidedly anticlimactic graduation, but I do have to admit I admire her determination to present everything in a uniform visual language, as well as the confidence it takes to stick to those guns, even if I’m not convinced doing so was necessarily the greatest idea. Art is all about bold choices — or should be — but Isadora’s cartooning style for this book is one of those double-edged swords in that works really well in terms of communicating certain things, but falls flat when it comes to communicating others. I could see warming up to it more upon a second reading as being a distinct possibility, but my next task here, as fate would have it, is to let you know precisely why said hypothetical second reading probably isn’t in the offing.
Stop me if you’ve heard this one before : Pickles is the only hard-working student in an arts program overflowing with spoiled trust-fund kids. Her instructors are hopelessly out of touch with their students. Her parents can’t relate to her, nor she to them. Life after graduation looks to be fraught with uncertainty. Her love life’s DOA. Why, it’s like she’s always stuck in second gear. It just hasn’t been her day, her week, her month, or even her year. And while I’m not saying this book is anywhere near as vapid as any given episode of Friends, that’s partly down to the simple fact that, let’s face it, nothing can be. I don’t think Isadora’s a cartoonist without ambition, or without the ability to see that ambition through to a reasonably compelling finished product (I haven’t seen her Is It Vague In Other Dimensions? ‘zine, but it comes highly recommended by people whose opinions I generally trust), but thematically she’s playing it really safe here : “write and draw what you know” is solid advice and all, but should come with the caveat “if you have something new to add to the conversation.” Isadora herself may, but unfortunately this comic does not.
On the plus side of the ledger, Isadora’s dialogue is sharp, clear, and natural, even if no one’s really saying anything we haven’t read before, and her sense of comic timing is spot-on : this story is frequently quite funny. But one can’t help but feel she’s going for a crowd-pleaser with this project rather than pushing her talents to their utmost. There’s enough here to ensure that I’ll be keeping an eye out for her next book in the hopes that she’ll do just that, but not quite enough that I can recommend this one.
Also, this review is “brought to you” by my Patreon site, where I serve up exclusive thrice-weekly rants and ramblings on the worlds of comics, films, television, literature, and politics for as little as a dollar a month. Subscribing is the best way to support my continuing work, so I’d be very appreciative if you’d take a moment to give it a look by directing your kind attention to https://www.patreon.com/fourcolorapocalypse
The holidays are over and I know A LOT about Electricity, Magnetism, and Titans. The episode opens with a brutal scene of a woman killing two cops. I almost had to look away. It is NOT for the faint of heart. What got to me was the cold psychopathy of it. The reason for this little Kill-spree is poorly developed. It quickly cuts to Wayne Manor and Blackfire is now a quasi-Titan and she still prevents me from totally concentrating. She and Superboy have REAL chemistry. So… pretty sure that’s happening very soon. Kyptonians get all the luck!
Lady Vic really more of a B-Storyline. We see how Barbara Gordon and Dick became an item. Boy knows girl, boy and girl both dress flamboyantly, and boy and girl knock over a museum for an old trinket, which of course leads to Knocking Boots. There’s a lid for every pot, but museum heist leading to intercourse doesn’t seem like a direct route to me, but what do I know- I study hours of Math …. for fun. Through flashbacks, we learn that Babs and Dick went on heists for fun, but ended up killing Lady Vic’s husband, brother… or something.
I guess that I have to note that there is a plotline of when will Blackfire and Superboy hook up? However, this plot-line is just so predictable that it’s not great. The show needs Hawk back. He added a terrific wisecracking element and Gar and Superboy just don’t quite make up for his loss.
Jason Todd is still Red Hooding with Dr Crane. Lady Vic works for him too, but just as a side-hustle.
This episode was more disjointed than a knee replacement, but I guess you have to watch it to prepare for the next episodes.
This is one of my favorite Alex Ross images. I’m not sure if that’s Henry Pym or Clint Barton towering over the city but this painting captures the shock and wonder that would be generated by such a sight. It’s from the 2nd issue of Marvels and to me, this is what the MCU films should take some times to explore, not just the activities of super-powered heroes but also of all the ordinary people who have to try to live their lives while all of the heroes and the villains fight their petty battles.
Through the Shattered Lens 